“And all I loved, I loved alone.”

Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence.

There is no exquisite beauty without some strangeness in the proportion.

The past is a pebble in my shoe.

Years of love have been forgot, In the hatred of a minute.

That which you mistake for madness is but an overacuteness of the senses.

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!

A wise man hears one word and understands two.

All suffering originates from craving, from attachment, from desire.

If a poem hasn’t ripped apart your soul; you haven’t experienced poetry.

If a poem hasn’t ripped apart your soul; you haven’t experienced poetry.

False hope is nicer than no hope at all.

I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of beauty.

All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.

Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.

We loved with a love that was more than love.

The true genius shudders at incompleteness – imperfection – and usually prefers silence to saying the something which is not everything that should be said.

You feed me poison in a spoon of gold and I always ask for more.

It’s hard to breathe when she is not around.

The relationship you have with yourself affects all the others.

When they break you; collect your broken pieces & bloom elsewhere. For you’re a flower in the land of those who love you.

I hope you find someone, who pours love like rain during monsoon, onto all broken parts of you.

The world kept breaking you and here you are- still soft, still loving, how strong of you to maintain your magic in a world where everyone loses their essence.

If your heart is broken it doesn’t mean it can’t love again.

How is it that we mourn the shattered pieces of the love we willingly broke?